I had hidden from the honesty. And when I start lying, lying to selfishly lock away my pain away from the one person who could understand it more than I would want to believe, I'm the one who ends up most hurt. A week ago, I let go of my pain all at once and was, yet again, reborn...
Why doesn't my mind summon all the details of our conversations back to me the instant we're done? For sanity. Morning pages, you have me do three pages of morning pages? Give me that time with my bondmate. It all comes out all the same, written or spoken, when I'm being honest. I may lie to him only as long as he allows me to, and that's a difficult proposition. He calls me on it when I lie to myself.
Those are the dry fact-words of it. It's hard to put the words to the experience, when so much of it transcending the written. It's the high golden woodwind note painting a deep blue late summer sky, rising to the furthest point the air carries flight and holding the altitude, calm and soaring. When the sound of that note diminishes, the feeling of it still vibrates the bone and blood. Below the level of conscious attention, a subtle and complex bass line weaves the notes of a chord progression in and out of each other in Celtic patterns, ebony-brown and rich birch gold.
One could package up all that and more into a few words, and leave it at "best friend". "Affection," "acceptance", and "unconditional love" brush against the edges, but there isn't the depth and breadth to that, the experience, the sheer joy in being human, the patience, the experience that comes of pain and survival.
I show my bright and sparkling shallows to the world, and occasionally a current comes up from the deep and startles the careful observer. Only the few have ever survived to tell of the undertow, and fewer accept it as openly. What use is fencing with the sea?